


Expectations and educations

by dioscureantwins



Series: The signal [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>virgin!Sherlock is determined to take his brother’s advice to heart. In the meantime army doctor!John has delved into his past</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expectations and educations

**Author's Note:**

> this story is the sequel to my fic [The signal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/401022). I strongly advise you read that first or you won’t have a clue what this is about
> 
>  
> 
> beta: lady_t_220

The heavy black door fell closed behind him. John resisted the urge to rest his back against the sturdy wood as he remained hovering on the doorstep, surveying the London scene before him with unseeing eyes. Exhilaration still coursed through his frame. Licking his lips he appreciated the lingering taste of the caresses the harlot had bestowed there. What an extraordinary mouth that man had, all sensual seduction advertising itself, entirely apt to the profession its possessor had chosen. 

John shut himself off from the bustling life in the road around him for a moment, relishing the residue of recent titillation tingling on his body. Upon re-opening his eyes he stepped down onto the pavement and looked up but the windows above the awning were empty. 

No doubt the prostitute, Sherlock, and his customer lay entwined on the sofa he’d spotted next to the door, while the servant was occupied changing the covers on the bed for them to slip between later on. Both the bed and the mesmerising creature that plied his trade there had been so clean he couldn’t imagine the man would even consider receiving a new client on sheets that had been soiled by the previous one. John felt the brush of the soft high thread-count fabric against his shins again, the warm dry touch of the tapering fingers as they lay splayed on his breastbone. He inhaled with vigour to savour the last traces of the sweet sharp smell of the tart’s skin that were still meandering in his nose. 

To his dismay he found the thought of another man enjoying those embraces and taking pleasure from the body that he had held only a quarter of an hour ago disturbed him deeply. No, worse, the idea positively annoyed him. 

He tried to shake himself loose, wipe the concept from his mind, but discovered he couldn’t. The long legs still clung to his. Burned into his scalp was a chart of the path the whore had trawled through his hair with tentative fingers during their last kiss. 

Oh God, the tart had known exactly how to play him. His affecting of a haughty, yet virginal chastity as John entered the room had edged John on to an audacity he wouldn’t otherwise have dared to display. Once in the bedroom he had assumed a certain reluctance at first but soon yielded to an adorable spontaneity, luxuriantly allowing John to rivet his eyes on all the splendor, following John’s lead, overwhelming him with a timid enthusiasm that had seemed so fresh, so unaffected. His mouth had sought for the kisses, eyes closed in a pretension of total abandon. John had always liked kissing, appreciated it as a wonderful means to convey tenderness and eagerness, a promise that could turn into a prelude, a delightful anticipation of the acts that were to ensue. He was convinced he was rather good at it. Only with David had he ever been this intent on gratifying his partner, applying all his skill and technical prowess. Brushing and lapping, gently gliding his lips over the man’s mouth before delving in with thick hungry strokes, to be rewarded with the tactile touch of a tongue at least as agile as his. 

Afresh he saw the steady gaze of the extraordinary eyes as the strumpet had looked up at him while he was chasing his pleasure between those carmine lips. The pale shimmering irises with the green and blue glints exuding a look of wonder and – Christ, how did he do it? What an artist – innocence and trust. 

Now someone else was sampling that mouth, fondling those loins, pulling that taut abdomen against his own, entering him. A whole array of possible scenarios unrolled themselves in his head and he hated each and every one of them with a passion. He couldn’t endure anyone else partaking of that wondrous body. He regretted having been so coarse in language and attitude, so unlike his usual self, but the exhilaration, the gratification at his first sexual encounter in almost a year – and such a highly successful one at that – had made him loose his head. How was he ever going to refute the bad first impression he must have made?

As the positive energy slowly fizzled out in his body, his heart reaching its normal rate again, he felt a gloomy despondency start its course through his veins. The realisation dawned on him with dreadful certainty that he had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, and made the classic mistake. He had allowed himself to be swept of his feet by a prostitute, a man he’d never laid eyes on until an hour ago. A minx who wasn’t interested in him, John Hamish Watson, for the person he was, but only for his money, of which, as he well knew, he had little enough. 

Whatever had possessed him to turn to that door and ring that bell? He should have just walked on. Knowing he was in dire straits and certainly in no position to spend money on whores. But no … No man could have resisted that signal, the indolent long-lashed drop over the dilated pupil, the slow languid drag of the tip of that pink tongue along the underside of that plush upper lip. It had been just his luck to have been treated to that spectacle right now, just as the numbing effects of his grief had started wearing off at last. He had felt the hot blood stirring inside him anew lately and it had been such a long time since he had lain with a man. He was a sensual creature, he couldn’t berate the animal part of his brain for responding to such a zestful stimulus. But he could have given in and got it out of his system and been done with it, couldn’t he? Despite all the elaborate advertising, there had been no need to fall this hard for the boy's charms.

How on Earth could he have been so dense? But it was true. All he desperately, desperately wanted now was to be with Sherlock again; to lay his hand against that captivating face, to feel the lean frame wreathing itself around him and, if possible - and how grateful he would be for that to happen – to hear the deep melodious voice calling his name in the throes of orgasm once more. To jealously prevent him from selling his body to other men.

And that wasn’t even enough. He wanted to know all about him, to have him tell his history and explain why he’d chosen this craft. Although John discerned he probably knew the story already, he had the draft drawn up inside his head. 

The man no doubt would prove to originate from a background even more humble than John's own, all filth and squalor. He'd have conceived early on that his good looks offered him a means of escape. In his mind’s eye Sherlock – or rather Jack or Harry or maybe even John, as Sherlock was an assumed name of course, just like the well-bred tone of voice was the result of dedicated careful practice, not of breeding – stepped into and out of an endless parade of beds to suffer every kind of perversion the depraved human mind could think off.  
  
Each new bed would have turned out to be a slightly more comfortable one, the sheets changing through the months and years from grey shrunken rags to threadbare clean ones, steadily improving in both texture and appearance until he ended between the luxurious sheets of a flat in Baker Street; a respectable apartment where he could ply his trade in relative ease and comfort. John cringed at the contemplation of the dreadful tales Sherlock would disclose to him, and yet he wanted to become cognisant of them all so he could draw Sherlock against his breast and plant a kiss on his forehead to chase the memories away. 

Yes, go ahead John Watson, he cheered himself on. Let your tender heart get the better of you. 

He had a terrible tendency towards sentimentality, a trait Mary had playfully and regularly teased him about. But surely even he should be able to perceive it was no use getting sentimental over a whore’s life story?

How could he have been so stupid? Yet how much he wished it was tomorrow afternoon already, for then he would be able to lose himself into those beguiling eyes once more; thread his fingers through the silky-soft black curls that bedecked the graceful head, to – he felt his heart leap inside his chest and the beginning of a fresh erection stirring inside his trousers – savour the sight of the long white throat as Sherlock threw back his head in an agony of lust. He would ride John’s cock, clasping his own erect member with an elegant hand. Oh God! John gasped at the mental image and willed it away for fear of betraying himself on this busy street.

He checked his watch. A little more than an hour left before he was due to meet Stamford at the Criterion Long Bar. He’d set out far too early, still unaccustomed to the fact London was so vast and yet simultaneously more dense than Calcutta, both time and distance so different from India that they scarcely seemed to be measured in the same units. 

He briefly considered staying in the vicinity of the black door with the bold brass numbering to glower at his successor, but decided the probably dazed and satisfied look on the man’s face would merely vex him. Maybe hanging around would even ensure he was witness to the arrival of the next eager customer. Better by far to while away some time in Regent’s Park, cherishing the delicious sensations once more while seated on a bench. 

He mingled with the pedestrians on the pavement, letting himself drift in the direction of the green open space. A steadily increasing stream of children’s maids with perambulators and governesses and tutors taking their charges on their way home for tea after their daily ambling around the park, indicated he was heading the right way. Inside the gates he plunked himself onto the first empty seat and scanned the green turf and the flower beds, not registering the scene at all.

His mind kept him from seeing what was in front of his eyes. It wasn’t inclined to transport him back to the flat at Baker Street 221b however, but rather to delve deeper into his history, summoning forth the smiling visage of David.

***

They had literally bumped into each other in the third week of John’s first Hilary term.  
After showering John with profound apologies David had invited him for a cup of tea back in his own rooms. John could still recall the shock he had felt as he had entered that palace of wealth and opulence that existed so close to John’s own meagerly furnished scholarship room. Although John wouldn’t have cared if David’s rooms had been the humble abode of the son of the poorest beggar in the Empire. Not after he had fallen for those melted chocolate eyes, that dazzling smile.

David had been the one to take the plunge though. They would have been waiting till hell froze over before John would have dared to initiate their first kiss, their first embrace. And oh, how good that had been. All the anguish and longing had been wiped away as he felt the brush of David’s lips against his, finally holding the strong muscular form in his arms.  
He had been so deeply, deeply in love with David.

***

They had spent the better part of three years together before John passed his finals and he and David had been obliged to part company so John could complete the rest of his studies at Bart’s. It was there, one Friday morning, that Mike Stamford had approached John in one of the corridors. 

“I say,” he had mumbled, handing John a newspaper. “Have you seen this. Such a pity. You and he were quite close at Oxford, weren’t you?”

John had stared at the obituary page for a long time, barely able to comprehend its meaning. David had been hit by a car. Death had been instantaneous..

***

That was the only token of remembrance he'd ever had. An obituary in The Times.  
Seated on the bench in Regent’s Park John knew it still to be resting close to his heart, tucked away in his pocket book.

***

He had been drunk for three whole days. The last day he’d entered into that stupid bet with some workmen he’d met in a pub and ended up in the bed of a whore. He wasn’t sure whether he had even managed to perform there. He was sure he had managed to vomit copiously over her sheets though. She had thrown him out and he had picked himself up and walked home to his bedsit and cried himself to sleep.

***

Half a year later John had been approached by a good-looking young man as he came out of Bart’s main entrance. That had been Oliver, one of David’s friends, way back from his Eton days. Oliver had confessed himself to have been in love with John since the day they had met by chance at David’s rooms three years ago. John had let himself be seduced by Oliver’s discreet tact and his beautiful, soft, long-fingered hands. Oliver had been such a resourceful and imaginative lover, John couldn’t help loving him a little in return. But never like it had been with David.

***

Only now did John fully comprehend the constant jealousy Oliver must have been coping with; the continuous antagonism he must have had to suppress for fear he would drive John away from him if he ever showed him a glimpse of the green jaundice that was steadily eating away at his heart.

“God, Oliver. I’m so very sorry,” he mumbled, but even as he said it his thoughts had already flown off to Sherlock. John hungered for him, his whole body a tingling vat of lust for that luscious form. He couldn’t stay seated any longer. He leapt up and almost ran through the park before dropping down onto a bench once more. Walking didn’t bring any relief either to the agony that tore through his breast.

***

During the last year of his studies he had applied to a doctor’s post in the Indian Army. His mother and sister had wept. Oliver had blanched, staggered and forced himself to recover. His farewell present had been the watch John was wearing still, his name and title engraved on the back, the watch itself the essence of understated good taste. 

***

He had been overwhelmed by the beauty of India. The wild hostile landscapes, the towering mountains, the abundant greenery. All excessive, limitless bounty.

Army life had fitted him like a glove. Of course class had been important there as well. But once in uniform they had all looked alike, so it hadn’t been such a nerve-grating constant reminder as it had been in England. In the army one was judged by one’s merit. Or so had been his first supposition. Until he had perceived remaining a bachelor wouldn’t help him to rise in the ranks.

***

The newly posted colonel had brought three daughters with him. The middle one, Mary, had big dark eyes, all molten chocolate, and a ready laugh. He had started his private campaign to woo her. 

He’d known they would be happy together as she had walked up the aisle on her father’s arm. And they had been, despite their differences. Money had been a constant argument between them, Mary being used to her station in life and genuinely not understanding John’s pay was barely enough to sustain them on that level. She had brushed all his arguments away with that laugh and he had given in to her every time, managing to set aside far less than they should have. 

***

He had a wardrobe of summer attire to last him a lifetime surely.

***

Despite their enthusiastic endeavours – Mary gigglingly telling him during their honeymoon her mother’s advice the day before the wedding had literally been: ‘lie back and think of England’ – their marriage hadn’t been blessed with children. Mary had been distraught at first, then accepting, shrugging her shoulders and throwing herself into charity work instead. And so they had lived. Ten blessed years in which they had loved and respected one another, each working day ending with them seated on the verandah, sipping their tea and discussing their small adventures since they had taken leave of each other at the breakfast table. 

Until the day arrived that had ended with him crying next to the bed – holding her rapidly cooling, small, shrunken hand – where she had been lying dead from the cholera she’d contracted while going on one of her charity rounds.

***

Upon her death he had desired nothing more than to be away from the country that had killed his wife. Finally he had decided to give up the security the army provided him with and replied to an advertisement for a teaching post at Bart’s. Upon arrival in England however, he had been told the post had been allotted to another applicant, which was rather how he found himself now dwelling in a small bedsit in the North of London with fast-dwindling savings. London was so very expensive. He was too proud to approach Oliver for help, though he had berated himself endlessly for not maintaining the friendships he’d struck up in the past. Thank God he’d run into Mike Stamford at The Criterion. Stamford had promised he would ask around and had indeed written the moment he had heard of a vacancy in a general practice in central London.

***

John had been on his way there when he had taken a shortcut down Baker Street. He'd been intent on finding himself a means of living, not hunting for the black swirling mass of curls that still danced on the fringes of his memory. So fine and supple, like silk gossamer. The glossy coils that had stretched and then sprung back as he had tangled his fingers through them.

Oh God, he was doomed. 

***

John checked his watch. He really should go and meet Stamford, and concentrate on finding work.

***

Though John's mind managed to focus attention on barely half their conversation, Stamford was sure everything would work out fine. He had pleaded with great energy on John’s behalf and assured John the position was practically his. John was to go there the day after tomorrow. By the end of the evening John actually felt cheered by Stamford’s honest bonhomie and confidence.

*** 

Back in his bedsit he sat mulling over the next problem in his mind. Should he buy Sherlock a little token of respect and affection or not? Being a kept man he was probably used to being showered with expensive presents, fashionable cufflinks and tie pins, cashmere shawls, God knew what else. Whatever John bought him, it would be but a meager offering compared to what he was used to receiving. Besides, wouldn’t it be ridiculous to carry a present at his second visit? Maybe it would be better to wait a few weeks. A few weeks, oh God, he was going to be bled dry. He needed that job and would still have to live as cheap as possible in order to afford to continue seeing Sherlock. He wished he’d never chosen to take the Baker Street route on his way to the hospital. 

***

In the end he decided on some strawberry tartlets. He would buy them at Harrods and simply not think of the cost. Through them he could express he was interested in all of Sherlock, not just the sex, as he would pay for the time they would spend eating them while he tried to coax Sherlock into disclosing a little more about himself. 

Satisfied with this decision John settled himself down for the night. The long dark hours saw him in the misery of twisting and turning that had been his nightly rest ever since Mary’s death. Except now he was reducing his sheets to a knotted coil at the end of the bed, because he was dragging his tongue over Sherlock’s body in his fevered dreams. They were visions that brought him no tranquility, only restless desire as he explored Sherlock’s body from the tip of his long wriggling toes to the sweet smells issuing forth from the curls on the top of his head.

***

The next day found him under the awning in Baker Street at an hour far too early. He considered ringing the bell anyway but concluded that wouldn’t do. It was quite conceivable Sherlock had other appointments first.

He stood hesitating, the box with the tartlets dangling by the elaborately tied strings from his right hand. Walk over to Regent’s park again? He couldn’t stand the place. Seat himself in the cafe and have a drink? No, that cost money and he wasn’t able to sit still anyway. 

He walked up the pavement in the direction of Melcombe Street. Upon turning he saw a sleek black Bentley drive up in front of 221b. Out hopped a chauffeur to hold the door for an immaculately dressed man, one who stepped out of the car with deliberate care, as if he begrudged the pavement its contact with the soles of his shoes. His flawlessly tailored bespoke suit had Savile Row written all over it. His right hand wheedled an expensive umbrella while his left daintily held a small carefully wrapped package. The chauffeur walked up to the door and rang the bell before taking his leave with a small bow, seating himself in the car again. The door was opened by the servant. She greeted the man with an air of respectful familiarity. So this was an example of the kind of clientele Sherlock was used to entertaining. Whatever had possessed him to throw that fateful wink at John?

He stood hovering on the street, a hapless victim of a dreadful jealousy. He crossed the road and glanced up at the windows. Although nothing moved behind the net curtains a feeling crept upon him that he was the object of close scrutiny. He crossed the road again and waited, walking back and forth under the awning, ignoring the increasingly annoyed looks thrown his way by the cafe's proprietor.

At long last, after nearly three quarters of an hour, the black door opened and the man stepped out, twirling his umbrella, a satisfied smirk on his features. He looked John straight in the face and gave him a pleasant nod before entering the car, seating himself with the utmost care in order to not crease his trousers. The chauffeur closed the door behind him, walked back to the front and started the motor. John was left standing in the exhaust fumes as the Bentley took off. 

***

With a desperate urgency he threw himself at the bell. 

“Ah, here you are again,” the woman said as she opened the door for him. “Sherlock told me to expect you. Do come in.”

She followed him up the seventeen steps, maintaining a pleasant prattle he could barely focus on beyond the endless noise of his heart hammering away in his chest. He felt a tightening in his scrotum, a stirring in his lower abdomen. His hand shook as he laid it upon the door handle. 

There Sherlock was, once more in front of the mantelpiece, on those endless legs that rose like pillars supporting the shrine to the god of love that he embodied. He was impeccably dressed in a fashionable suit and shirt, the cut of both provocatively narrow. The top two buttons of the shirt were open, allowing a view of the dimple between his collarbones where the delightful slender column of his throat started its journey upwards to the elongated face. Above that lay his shimmering eyes and moist, partly opened lips, which beckoned to John like the sweet summer rose attracts the bumblebee by its elaborate display of dewy abundance.

He looked so clean, so untainted. Yet John was sure he must have been cavorting between the sheets, submitting his body to another’s pleasure only ten minutes ago. 

Sherlock stepped forward, fingering his suit jacket before holding out his right hand. “Hello doctor Watson,” the dark honeyed voice sounded. “So very pleased to see you again.” The stretch of his arm held John at a distance, an inauspicious start in direct contradiction to the tone of his voice and the hint of warmth that brightened the planes of his face. He gave a slight inclination of his head in the direction of the kitchen where the servant was busying herself. John felt a hot spark of lust flame up inside him at this display of courteous delicacy, the kept-up pretense that these premises weren’t entered with the sole object of temporarily losing oneself in every conceivable act of debauchery. He decided to comply, fighting his instinct to throw himself at Sherlock like he had twenty four hours ago. He had promised himself to show a little restraint, a tad more delicacy. If he wanted Sherlock to like him, mauling him in front of the servant wouldn’t provide him with the most advantageous impression.

“Pray be seated,” Sherlock continued. “Tea will be ready any minute. Won’t it, Mrs. Hudson?” he raised his voice.

“Yes Sherlock,” the servant chimed from the kitchen. 

John would admit to a faint sense of disappointment, as he’d rather counted on a precipitate withdrawal to the bedroom. On the other hand, he had planned on partaking in a spot of tea at some point in the proceedings anyway. That was what he’d spent money at Harrods for after all. He proffered the small, elegant box wrapped up in its excess of ribbons and bows.

“I bought us some strawberry tartlets to take with our tea.”

“Oh, how delicious. Mrs. Hudson, doctor Watson brought me some tartlets to thank me. Could you put them on a plate?” 

He walked over to the kitchen and handed the box to her. She peeked inside and started to say something. He glossed over her remarks with a deliberate: “Yes thank you, Mrs. Hudson. On a plate please.” 

Turning back to John he smiled. “Won’t you be seated, doctor Watson? You can tell me some more about India. You had me hanging on your every utterance yesterday. I was enthralled by the instructive information you were inclined to share with me. Once my interest in a new field is aroused I find I’m inexhaustible in the quest for a more profound knowledge.”

John felt a panicked bewilderment overtake him. He sank in the comfy chair with the Union Jack cushion that was indicated to him. He was convinced he hadn’t mentioned his last name, nor his profession, nor the fact he had recently returned from India. How could Sherlock have uncovered these facts about him? And why? Although, it was flattering. Could it indicate he felt a flicker of the same interest that John felt for him?

Sherlock sat down in the chair on the other side of the mantelpiece, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth, his whole figure tensed up in an attitude of concentrated attention. His eyes scrutinised John with deliberation.

“Ermm yes, India,” John racked up eventually. “India.” An ethereal, light, leafy smell drifted up his nostrils at the words. He blinked a few times before laughing. “Actually, it does smell like India here. The rainy afternoons as we sat taking our tea. The view was extraordinary, the mist rising from the foothills.”

“That must be the tea,” Sherlock confirmed. “I once wrote a small treatise on the disorienting effect of smells on the human brain. It sadly influences the reliability of the stories witnesses come up with on interrogation.” He halted abruptly before leaping out of his chair, buttoning his jacket. “I say, Mrs. Hudson. Whatever is taking you so long?”

“The instructions inside the packet were most specific as to the exact brewing time, Sherlock.”

“For God’s sake, what does it matter? It’s only tea. Not a precious liquid to anoint the Holy Grail with. Pray excuse me.” This last sentence was delivered to John with a dazzlingly apologetic smile.

Sherlock hurried into the kitchen, closing the gliding doors behind him. John could hear a heated discussion firing up behind his back. 

He cast a furtive look about the room, viewing it in earnest for the first time. He hadn’t had eyes for anything but its enchanting inhabitant up until now.

He was no expert on brothel decor but the make-up of the room struck him as rather outlandish, whatever the profession of its occupant might be. The overall impression was cosy enough but the room was full of odd little details. There was a skull on the mantelpiece, a knife stuck into some correspondence next to it, and beside that a collection of boxes in which moths in their various stages of development were on display. Stacks of books haphazardly covered almost every flat surface, pages of closely scribbled paper thrown over the floor, and in the corner lay a violin and its bow. The only object John could place as being in accordance with Sherlock's profession was the riding crop that was flung down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. At his feet a small card lay carelessly abandoned, the creamy-white paper screaming its excessive cost at him, the handwriting a flourishing scrawl. ‘Only the best, my dear. Mycroft’ John read. No doubt the card had been attached to a small box containing an expensive present. But how was he to combine the idea of costly gifts with the rather scuffed carpet on which the card was tossed. It was all rather contradictory. Still, it was consistent with Sherlock’s behaviour in front of the servant. Anyone observing them in these surroundings would have supposed them to be two men that had recently struck up an acquaintance, one of them visiting for the first time in the bachelor flat of the other, nothing more.

Suddenly the dispute in the kitchen was ended by a shrill: “I don’t have to accept that from you in my own home, young man,” followed by a violent banging of the door between the kitchen and the hallway.

The glass doors were opened and Sherlock entered the living room again. “I’m so sorry about that,” he breathed before pulling John out of his chair with an arm that was unexpectedly strong and kissing him most passionately on the mouth. 

“It appears we won’t have tea after all,” he sniffed once John was allowed to come up for breath. “You don’t mind, do you? It was a suggestion doomed to flounder from the ill-advised beginnings. May I propose we retire to the bedroom instead?”

He accompanied his suggestion with a wink, an exact replica of the captivating signal that had ensnared John yesterday afternoon. 

“Oh God, yes,” John panted, grasping Sherlock by the hand and dragging him through the kitchen and the small passage like he’d done the day before, throwing him on the – once more snowy-white and soft – sheets that covered the bed, all pledges of restraint forgotten.

***

It felt as if he held a skittish young Arabian colt between his thighs, all fervid impatience, pawing the bed with long legs. Flaring nostrils were wide in the effusive face, the tendons in the white throat trembling, his ribcage labouring under the expectant desire of the race. The eyes were enlarged and overcast in anxious anticipation, the pupils blown-up to a representation of the sweltering moist night sky in the last weeks before the monsoon. The black glossy coils of his mane were waving and whirling on the pillow as he tossed his head to and fro in restless constant motion. 

What a magnificent beast he was. John strengthened the grip of his thighs on the bucking body beneath his, constraining its anxious activity. He was looking forward to the chase as much as the beautiful animal that lay writhing beneath him. But there was nothing wrong with an exploration at leisure of the abilities they both brought into the game, a little sauntering around the amenities at their disposal. Indeed, after a delay the race would be all the more exhilarating.

He laid his hand against the noble head, fingertips smoothing the extended cheekbones, heel of his palm cupping the round chin, willing the high-strung activity into placidness. 

“Careful,” he murmured, “careful.”

His hand kept caressing the creamy-white skin snuggling against his palm. Sherlock threw his head aside and latched his lips onto the ball of John’s thumb, sucking and biting with quick nips, concentrating his wish for activity into the zealous touch of his mouth. His hands, which had been flexing helplessly in accordance with the nervous agitation of his head, stilled near the spread of his curls, fingers twitching before they came to rest. The nervous body surrendered to the relaxation of John’s soothing caress, the feverish pressing of his mouth mellowing into a languid suckling. Only the tip of his tongue kept darting forward between his teeth to brush John’s skin with shy skittish strokes.

“There,” John whispered, “that’s better, isn’t it? God, you’re beautiful, you’re so heartbreakingly beautiful.”

He inched his hand a little lower, down onto the statuesque column of the throat, insinuating his fingers between the nape and the pillow, under the soft ruffle of the hairs that tickled against the back of his hand. With his thumb he traced slow circles over the tendon just under Sherlock’s earlobe, luxuriating both in the feel of the velvety-soft skin and in the sound of the sharp intake of breath this drew forth, a surprised “oh” accompanied by a flutter of eyelids as he blinked up at John from beneath heavy lids.

“That’s,” he breathed, his voice strangled, “that’s wonderful. John, I confess, you’re … oh God. Touch me.” He arched his back in lavish surrender, nestling deeper against John’s fingers with a soft little purr.

“I will,” John promised, “I am, aren’t I.” He felt his chest contract then swell with rapture as he looked down on the lovely eloquent face, all awkward planes and angles thrown randomly together like one of those modern paintings, but here the effect was one of otherworldly beauty instead of a deliberate attempt to shock and distort. 

Sherlock’s passive acquiescence to his leading hand urged him to pleasure that wondrous entity with all the ingeniousness he possessed, to worship this lewd pagan god that rose out of the undulating sea of soft sheets like a graceful temple of wanton indolence. 

He bent down and drew his tongue over the long slope of Sherlock’s nose, from the slightly turned-up tip up to the high expressive forehead, diverting to the almost translucent gauze of the closed eylids. His nose grazed the delicate skin just under the thick eyebrows, his sense of smell beset by the sweet musky odour of Sherlock’s desire. 

He inhaled deeply, drowning himself in the scent. Sherlock brushed his temple with apprehensive fingertips. His blurred features tilted towards John, the lush lips slack and panting, eyes slanted and unfocused with avidity. 

John took the hand and kissed the tips of the fingers one by one, just a quick dab with his lips before descending down the middle finger and the palm to end at the pulse point, lapping and stroking with his tongue, palpitating the fine blue and purple veins where he felt the blood racing. His handling of that exquisite instrument excited him into grabbing Sherlock’s other hand and pulling it up against his crotch, to discover the solid confirmation of the arousal Sherlock’s display of languor inspired. The hand hesitated. John lifted himself up a tad, and felt the fingers spread to cup his testicles and his member through the material of his trousers, tentatively searching for the best grip. 

John gasped and closed his eyes, concentrating on the touch he had yearned for, shivering at the sparks of relish that shot outward from his groin through his body. The fingers grazed the edge of his perineum, lightly pressing the tender spot behind his balls. Thank God he was still clothed or he would have climaxed. He had to battle the amoral alliance forged by the ardent yet almost clumsy grasp of the fingers and the wondering demure expression on Sherlock’s face. Combined they seemed set to exploit all possible means to wrench the ultimate pleasure from his body. The fact that Sherlock obviously remembered this charming air of innocence had aroused John so the previous day, heightened John’s rapture and gratification both. He avidly wished to impress and delight this glorious creature, to convey he was capable of administering pleasure as well as of receiving it.

John smiled down on Sherlock – delighting in the coy play of ‘Chastity led Astray’ they were enacting – and started flicking open the buttons of the tight shirt one by one. He worked his way down with slow deliberateness, fondling the rich alabaster skin that he laid bare, bending down to kiss and taste the marzipan abundance, luxuriate in the luscious sharp odour that wafted up from the expanse of Sherlock’s chest. His eyes were roving, unable to decide where to look. He was caught, mesmerized by the revealed expanse of creamy skin and well-toned muscles, perfectly round nipples seeming to plead for the attention of mouth and fingers both. He enfolded one with his lips, thumb and index finger capturing the other for its own delicious torment, the sweet-hot pinch and lick of captured flesh accompanied by broken moans and sighs drawn forth from the throat above his head. Heat rose from Sherlock's body and John tugged impatiently at his unbuttoned shirt to pull it out of the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. 

“Why don’t you sit up,” he said, helping Sherlock to raise his upper body. He shoved off the jacket and shirt, then pressed gently with both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to lay him down on the bed again. He started to take off his own jacket, removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt while Sherlock stared up at him, hand still caressing John’s crotch, slightly parted lips dewy and pouting with need. Once out of his shirt John threw the mass of clothes away from him. He grasped Sherlock’s hand with both of his, strengthening Sherlock’s grip. His balls were already drawn up tight against his body and Sherlock swallowed visibly, a groan welling up in his throat.

“John.”

To hear his name uttered with desperate longing by that throaty voice drove him wild. He gripped both sides of Sherlock’s head in an exigent clasp. “Oh you,” he gasped, but all coherency of speech had abandoned him, “you.” 

With a desperate urgency he fell on Sherlock’s mouth. He glided his lips over Sherlock’s, wallowing in the plush warmth and kissing him with fervent long strokes of his tongue. Supple wet velvet reached out with eager craving for John's kiss, their mouths crushed together as John ground the very core of himself against Sherlock’s palm. 

He felt Sherlock’s other hand grasping the back of his head, creeping a path up through his hair, pulling him even deeper into the kiss, devouring him with a greedy hunger. Their bodies slid against each other, Sherlock’s lean form writhing beneath him, eyes squeezed shut, lashes skirting John’s face, pressing himself into John, rolling his hips up. 

Still kissing – panting and moaning with it, inviting Sherlock’s rough hot tongue into his mouth – John pushed himself up on his knees to slide his hand between their bodies. He undid the buttons of his trousers and guided Sherlock’s hand into the cotton of his underpants and onto his cock, grunting against bruised scarlet lips as trembling fingers stroked and brushed with a hesitating touch.

He arched back with a gasp from the demanding pull of Sherlock’s lips, spluttering like a drowning victim, fighting the urge of his body for the release that threatened to engulf him afresh. His hand descended to Sherlock’s trousers. He found a button and a fly and wrestled with it above the swollen urgency he felt beneath, resolutely ignoring the languid caress Sherlock kept up, his cock straining and heavy and ready. Finally he managed to invade, past Sherlock’s silk underwear to close his hand on the quivering member that awaited his grasp, John’s own cock twitching in sympathy alike. 

How good he felt to John’s fingers, the shaft rising from yet more soft curls, hot and throbbing under the sheath of silken skin. John caressed with fleeting fingertips to show Sherlock he wasn’t the only one that knew how to tease, inching his foreskin over the glans just once, thrilled to find welling pre-ejaculate moistening the head. With an aching slowness he drew the circle of his fingers down again, Sherlock’s hand imitating his every move.

All of a sudden the grasp of Sherlock’s fingers tightened. His eyes flew open and, with a desperate moan that was wrenched from deep within, he drove himself up against John’s hand. John snatched his hand away but he was too late. Sherlock lay shuddering, head tossing on the cushion afresh, lips drawn into a tight pink rosebud. He was repeating John’s name over and over in husky low tones while the very essence of him shot out between them, covering his stomach, Sherlock rolling his hips up in a desperate search for continuance of the friction. John supplied his hand in commiseration to feel the last hot gushes welling up over his fingers, enthralled by the spectacle of Sherlock riding the waves of his orgasm.

John pressed his face against the taut tendon in the tender throat next, inhaling the strong musky scent of perspiration and spilled semen as it wafted up from between their chests. Sherlock’s fingers twitched and grasped helplessly but John didn’t need further stimulation. The writhing of the luscious body beneath him made him pour out his libation on the altar of this lavish idol once more, his release mingling with Sherlock’s in a heathen ritual of shameless youthful abandon. His body was squished and flattened – like a worshipper throwing himself in front of the relentless wheels of Lord Jaganath – as his own climax rolled over him, drawn forth by the brush of Sherlock’s fingertips milking him until he was completely spent and empty.

He gasped and panted, nose buried in the perfect smooth crook of Sherlock’s neck. Beneath him Sherlock had stilled, only his chest rising and falling quickly in the search for air. A faint bloom of pink had sprung up on his breastbone, blushing becomingly despite the almost incandescent transparency of his skin. He pulled John closer and fluttered John’s forehead with moist lips. 

“Thank you,” he sighed with a croak in his voice. “God, you’ve no idea ... ” John looked up but Sherlock had let his head fall onto the pillow again, leaving John the view of an endless stretch of smooth ivory skin.

“You’re welcome,” he managed before succumbing to post-orgasmic exhaustion, his whole body tingling with bliss as he floated down from the ecstasy, burying his head on the sweet-scented pillow of Sherlock’s left pectoral.

***

Sherlock’s squirming beneath him woke John up. He briefly felt a little dazed at first, wondering where he was. As he opened his eyes they were met by the clear and steady gaze of Sherlock looking down on him. John lifted his head.

“Hello,” he said.

The corners of Sherlock’s lips drew up into a smile. “Hello John.” 

He laid his hand against John’s cheek, the palm covered in a flaky film of John’s dried release. John took it in his own and started kissing the knuckles. He chuckled.

“You really are something special, Sherlock. I …with you, yesterday and now again, it’s like my first time all over again, like I’m eighteen once more. Mind you, contrary to the early experiences of most people my first time was actually very good.” He kissed the knuckles some more, relishing the scent of the cocktail of semen and Sherlock that drifted up into his nose, delighting in the closeness of the sated body beneath him.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “Yes,” he murmured, “my first time was a most gratifying experience as well.” 

He gazed a little longer at John before shyly averting his eyes. John wondered whether he wanted Sherlock to share this part of his past with him – a confession so contrary to the history he had concocted – when his eyes fell on the alarm on the night table. “

“Oh damn,” he muttered. More than an hour had already passed, no doubt Sherlock wanted him gone to prepare himself for the next customer. He sat up.

Sherlock’s hand clasped his thigh. “What are you doing?”

“Well, my hour is up. I guess you need me to be away. You …you’ll have other appointments.” His voice choked on the words, he fought the bitter jealousy that welled up inside him to spoil his contentedness.

The hand on his thigh tightened on the muscles. “No one else will be visiting today, John. I would be very pleased if you chose to abide a little longer with me.”

John gulped. Sherlock had voiced his own ardent wish but it was impossible.

“Look, Sherlock. I desire nothing better but I can’t, I simply haven’t got the money, not now. Maybe later on.” He shifted to the edge of the bed in order to stand up.

Two strong hands clasped his shoulders, Sherlock’s lanky form plastered itself against his back.

“I said ‘stay' John,” a dark voice whispered in his ear, nimble lips nipping the lobe. John felt himself pulled down into another embrace. “I have a confession to make.”

His lips swerved to John’s eyes, bestowing feathery light touches before descending over John’s nose to end on his mouth. He nibbled at the right hand corner then sealed his lips, still warm and swollen to John’s in earnest silent adoration. John gave himself up and the kiss expanded, descending into a new round of deep hungry strokes and twists of their tongues, John moaning up into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock broke loose with a sigh, heaving for breath.

“Oh John. Before yesterday, before I met you, I didn’t know what a kiss could be. You barged in and you refused to listen to me, you ignored my protests and had your way with me and … and it was the best experience of my life so far.”

Whatever was the man saying? John looked at Sherlock in astonishment.

“I don’t understand,” he said. He drew himself up and stared down on Sherlock who returned the stare with an earnest gaze, without any hint of mockery or deceitfulness.

Sherlock felt for his hand again. “I realise you believe me to be a prostitute but I’m not, John. I’m really not. Until yesterday I had never lain with anyone, never pleasured myself, the very idea repulsed me. But you showed me what I had disparaged- denied myself- although I can’t imagine engaging in these acts with anyone but you, John.”

His lips grazed the ball of John’s thumb, applying themselves feverishly to the back of his hand next, inducing John to lay his other hand into the soft downy nest of curls as Sherlock’s opaline eyes locked with his. “I confess, I look most earnestly forward to a frequent repetition,” he concluded.

“What are you saying? That man that came in yesterday. The man I saw entering today. What did they come for then? That – Christ – that signal, Sherlock. If you’re not a prostitute, what are you? How did you manage to produce that wink? Why ever did you entice me?”

“I was bored.” 

John laughed. “You were bored? So you thought why not investigate whether anyone is interested in … wait, you just confessed to me you were a virgin." John felt his stomach sink. "Oh Sherlock, what did you do? And then for me to force myself upon you? You must loathe me. Using you against your will.”

“Not against my will, never. Well, that first kiss maybe. But the touch of your lips reversed my opinions on the matter soon enough. And your eyes John. You have such beautiful eyes. With those small wrinkles around them, I love those. Yes, there, exactly. You … your kiss, how to describe it? I have no words … Ah well, let’s quote the Bard himself: ‘you kiss by the book.’ And you most shamelessly flattered me. You told me I was beautiful and … and … fucking gorgeous. I confess hearing you use all those coarse words quite aroused me. I didn’t envision … had no idea what to expect. I consented because I wanted you out of the flat as soon as possible as Lestrade was due to arrive any moment, but John, you must believe me, I’m so very grateful to you. I’m forever beholden to you for introducing me to the pleasures my own body and the touching of somebody else’s can inspire in me.”

Sherlock’s urgent disclosures washed over John in a hurried confidence but John found he couldn’t grasp the substance of what he was being told. He had covered his eyes with his hands and was following his own line of reasoning. 

“Oh God, what have I done,” he whispered, “you were a virgin. You still practically are and I … yesterday … I was preparing you to penetrate you, full penetration, I intended to fuck you. I came here today with the express determination to fuck you. I’d understood you to be a pro, pulling a trick on me. A wonderful trick, but still. Oh, thank God your climax prevented me. I can’t bear to consider … only imagine. And then … but no … it can’t be true. No man could kiss like that if he’d never done it before. And you fellated me like … But why would you lie to me? Oh Sherlock, you should have told me.”

Sherlock gripped John’s hands to draw them away from his face, kissing first the one, than the other, his eyes big and round, blinking up at John.

“Well, I attempted to but you wouldn’t heed me, remember? I was so overwhelmed by your actions, I just copied whatever you did to me. You kissed me a great deal so you gave me rather an education in the required technique. I wished to thank you for what you had made me experience so, when you made it obvious you yearned for me to take your penis into my mouth, I decided to comply. You say I fellated you but I wasn’t so very active. You fellating yourself in the offered orifice would be a better description. Grammatically incorrect but semantically faithful. I had surmised some suction should be applied but I didn’t really know what to do. In fact, I still don’t. You’ll have to show me. But you gave me a chance to reciprocate and it felt good to return to you what you had given me earlier. You make what you originally intended to do – fucking me – sound like a monstrous act. But what you did to initiate it was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me so I am obliged to assume anything you do is bound to bring me pleasure. And to you as well I suppose. Shall we indulge ourselves now? I would really like to.”

He accompanied the suggestion with a skittish touch of his fingertips on John’s flaccid member. John felt himself react with voracious interest. He shuddered and removed Sherlock’s hand, bringing it up against his chest.

“No, definitely not,” he said in a firm tone. “Well, not yet, not with you as the passive partner. Christ. You obviously haven’t the faintest. How is it possible? Who would ever have thought? You had me positing you as the height of artful deception and the whole time you simply hadn’t got an inkling.”

“No John,” Sherlock said with earnest simplicity, his eyes shiny and bright. He pulled John down with him. They lay opposite each other, head resting on the same pillow. John started a game with the curls, threading and chasing his fingers through the silky-soft whorls. Sherlock dabbed with light fingertips at John’s face, fluttering from his temple down to his chin, skittering down John’s throat and over his collarbones. 

“So, what do you do then? And who is that woman?”

“That woman as you wish to call her, is Mrs. Hudson, my landlady. She’s a treasure. I couldn’t do without her but you’re not ever to tell her. She’s attempting to lord it over me enough as it is already.” He snorted. 

“She’s in complete awe of my brother, that’s why we had such a row in the kitchen just now. I’ve been in an agony of indecision what to wear all day. I wanted to look my best for you. I spent hours in front of the mirror. Exactly when I was decided at last, that inquisitive old pain in the neck had to make his appearance and insist you should be served the best tea possible. First flush Darjeeling or whatever. The stuff was wrapped up in a container like it was gold dust, ostentatious card and all. He was adamant, sending Mrs. Hudson completely haywire. I fathomed he only did it to spite me because I spoiled his breakfast for him.”

John felt a faint tug of alarm at the back of his head. “So that was your brother I saw arriving in that car? The man with the umbrella?”

“Yes, that’s Mycroft. Blabbing on about the importance of tea, for God’s sake. It can’t be that difficult to run the Commonwealth if he has time to spare to visit at one’s inconvenience, acting both important and officious and boring the hell out of people that are actually busy. He kept repeating he desired to have a proper look at ‘the daring hero that did the daunting deed’, meaning you. To be honest, I think he was quite jealous of me once he’d seen you.” Sherlock giggled with a hint of wicked glee. 

“How did he know about me then?”

Sherlock blushed, a fetching pink colour creeping up over the cheekbones and spreading down the alabaster throat.

“I’m afraid I told him about us. I turned to him for advice this morning. I … I didn’t know who else to fall back on. I was desperate, I’d lain awake all night thinking of you, your eyes, how you’d kissed me, how you... touched me down between my legs. And understanding you perceived me to be what I’m not.”

John struggled to fight the panic rising inside him. “Please tell me this isn’t true, Sherlock,” he yelped. “Any judge would conclude you’d been soliciting yesterday and what we have done is a crime. Can you trust your brother in this? We could go to prison if we're found, you and I. It’s a ridiculous and inhuman law but, the law is the law.”

“Yes, the Criminal Law Amendment Act,” Sherlock huffed, disdain dripping from his voice. “I am aware of its existence. You needn’t concern yourself though. Ever since I came down from Cambridge Mycroft has been harassing me, wading through at least half of Who’s Who in his ongoing ghastly attempts to match me, regardless of the gender. Besides, Mycroft is the law and he’s most astute in bending it to serve his own means. Having his brother thrown into prison hasn’t been in the best of his interests up till now and I don’t see why the current situation would make him feel different. And Mrs. Hudson couldn’t care less.” 

John attempted to process the information concerning Sherlock’s brother, then blanched, his state of alarm returning.

“Mrs. Hudson knows as well?”

“Oh, she never said so but I’m pretty certain she does,” Sherlock grinned. “She’s a sly old thing. Remarkably broadminded for a woman of her class. That’s why we get on so fabulously well. I’m convinced she figured it out right away. But she kept a straight face all the while Lestrade sat here questioning me in his own befuddled mien, trying to ascertain what the man that just left had meant by his remark. That was really most wicked of you, John. She kept presenting her biscuits to him: ‘Here you are, Inspector. Please have another one, Inspector’, throwing me knowing looks throughout the whole time that blasted visit lasted. I threw him out, I couldn’t concentrate.”

“Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

“You knew he was coming?”

“Yes.”

“You propositioned me knowing in three quarters of an hour a Metropolitan official would visit you?”

“He doesn’t work with the Metropolitan. He’s in Scotland Yard. Your grasp of official organisations is rather feeble considering- ”

“Even worse. Sherlock,” John interrupted him. “Whatever were you thinking of?”

“I wasn’t thinking. I explained before – you really should pay more attention to what I’m telling you, John – I was bored.”

“I must say, you certainly take desperate measures to while the boredom away. Are you bored often?”

Sherlock laughed and inched his lanky form closer, struggling out of his trousers and underwear, anointing John’s lips with fresh fluttery kisses. “You’re a doctor,” he murmured throatily against John’s mouth. “Maybe you can prescribe me a cure to fight the boredom. One that demands active participation from the patient and his medical practitioner both?”

John put on a serious face. “This implies a complete reversal of the nature of the acquaintance I had in mind when I first entered these premises. For if you desire my treatment _you_ will have to pay _me_. However, out of the goodness of my heart I’ve decided your case could do with some largess.” 

Sherlock sniggered and kissed John’s hand again, thrusting his pelvis forward. His erect member sought friction, quickening as he felt an equal enthusiasm from John’s. John was determined to have some more questions answered first however. He shifted backwards and compensated for the loss of sensation and the resultant pout that instantly sprang up on his lover’s –yes, he supposed he was now allowed to regard this wonderful individual as his lover – face by tangling his fingers in the soft mass of curly whorls afresh.

“Before I’ll start a proper analysis of the condition of the invalid entrusted to my care,” he stated, “I need you to tell me how you found out I’m a doctor? Apart from the fact that I’ve indeed recently returned from India and all the rest you apparently already know about me." 

Sherlock chortled, mollified by John’s admiring question. “That’s my work, John. I’m a detective, a consulting detective. The only one in the world in fact. I invented the profession.”

“And what exactly does a consulting detective do?”

“Observe mostly. Yesterday, even though you had properly bowled me over I noticed the inscription on the back of your watch as you put it in your pocket again. The watch itself told me it was a gift, not from your departed wife.”John started in his arms but Sherlock continued on regardless. “You were married but widowed not too long ago, look at the ring on your finger, John. An indication of your marital condition. No woman would let you walk out her front door in the combination of clothes you’re wearing. Good clothes, must have been expensive, but horribly mismatched. Looking at the date the watch was produced, the expense and the design, I supposed it to have been a present from a lover, a male lover to be precise. One who was loath to see you depart for India and decided to gift you with something to remember him by. Of course you wouldn’t wear it if the name of the giver was engraved with yours on the back so it had to be your name and title : Doctor John Watson. Your bearing told me army. India was easily deduced from your summer attire. As I said, good quality but not exactly the fashion over here in London. Also there's the suntan, a tan our English sun isn’t able to call forth.”

John was quiet for a moment. He caught himself staring at Sherlock with his mouth open in stupefaction.

“That,” he said finally, “is amazing. Extraordinary in fact.”

Sherlock smirked. “Your face wears the same gratifying look of utter bewilderment Lestrade’s exhibits half the time I present him with all the evidence he overlooked. Oddly enough with Lestrade I’ve never felt this urgent inclination to kiss him.” 

He tugged at John’s trousers. “Come on John. Enough chatter for now. I’ve never been the most patient of men and … and … ” he hesitated before boldly proceeding, “I do have these strange inclinations all of a sudden that really could do with a doctor’s intimate examination.”

***

Dusk was descending by the time they woke from their post-orgasmic daze, their legs tangled together, a strand of soft silk tickling John’s nose. Sherlock initiated another round of kissing and John could feel his lover’s member stiffening anew. He was insatiable apparently. John’s own body however was composed of internal organs and his stomach made its presence known by insistently rumbling.

Sherlock sighed and looked at the alarm on the bedside table. “Nine thirty. I suppose you want to eat. There’s nothing in the flat but strawberry tartlets and that damned tea, I’m afraid. Do you have any experience in brewing the stuff? Mrs. Hudson always serves me but I can’t ask her now. She’ll still be angry. She can be most unreasonable sometimes.”

John made a wry face. “I don’t know whether a strawberry tartlet will be enough to sustain me, Sherlock.”

“Oh, I need just the one. You can have the other three.”

“Three? I only bought us two.”

“Yes.”

“So how … ” John started. 

Sherlock wriggled his eyebrows. “Surely you don’t need your own consulting detective to deduce the solution to that neat little problem for you.”

John laughed. 

“Come here,” he said, his voice broken by the flood of urgent tenderness that threatened to wash over him. Sherlock snuggled up to him once more and John pressed him close until his chest hurt.

“You simply are the most beguiling creature I ever encountered,” he whispered. “I’ll never understand whatever induced you to entice me with that signal but, by God, I consider myself the most fortunate man on Earth that you did.”


End file.
